


Boots

by Anonymous



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clarke Griffin/Roan (Background), F/M, Monty Green/Harper McIntrye (Background), Past Abuse (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-30 23:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17838320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It starts at the club on a Saturday.Inspired by Kesha's song titledBoots.





	1. Saturday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghelik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/gifts).



_Then I met you Saturday night, I tried to run away_

~*~

The dancefloor has turned into a kaleidoscope—flashing lights overhead hot and disorientating. The music is loud and to her taste. Echo can feel the ground shaking beneath her feet—feet which haven’t stopped moving since her friends first dragged her out onto the floor an hour ago.

Roan appears behind her, his return from the bar announced by the sweaty arm he extends over her shoulder. Echo plucks the offered drink from his hand without pausing the sway of her head and hips. There’s sweat beading across her exposed skin and gathering in large damp spots across her clothes. The press of Roan’s body against her back causes laughter to bubble inhibited straight from her chest. Taking a sip of her drink to ease the dryness in her throat, she turns on her heel to mock-punch his chest.

With his easy smile and half-lidded eyes Roan is the picture of a happy, tipsy man. The drink in his hand—dangerously blue—suggests he’s yet to hit his intended level of drunkenness. A look at the drink he’s gotten her—equally blue—makes her realise that, by his standards, neither is she. On any other occasion she’d resent his choice, but the rum can’t be tasted and so she decides to let it go. If she still wants her drink later, she’ll get it herself.

When she glances back at him, he wiggles his brows. This is the point of a night out where the games begin. Echo doesn’t enjoy playing them herself, but will gladly coach him through his game plan. Then, she’ll watch from the safe distance of the side-lines as he executes his moves on an unsuspecting victim. On most occasions the women are receptive to his advances; he has her to thank for that—she is far more observant than he is. As opposed to most, Roan only gets pickier the more he drinks.

Robin Schulz’s latest track bleeds into the final notes of The Chainsmokers’ song and Echo tilts her head back, hair swaying. Roan joins her half-heartedly, his lips pressed to the rim of his cup as his eyes scour the immediate vicinity. Lifting her head to take a sip of her drink, Echo follows his line of sight and spies the group of girls he’s watching. Two of them seem to be inadvertently crowding out the third girl—a blonde girl with a round face and glitter on her eyelids. Echo peers further into the crowd in search of Ontari but cannot find her. Chances are she won’t see her again until Monday.

Returning her attention to Roan, Echo tips her head in the blonde’s direction. Her eyebrows arch questioningly, the flashing lights streaking shadows across her face. This ‘conversation’ is one they’ve had plenty of times and doesn’t necessitate much detailing. His nod is duly noted, acknowledged with a long sip of her drink, which she then hands back to him. Without another word, Echo dances the distance to the blonde. It’s easy enough to lure her away from the two girls who seem to have forgotten their friend’s presence in the first place.

“I fucking love your eyeshadow!”—she yells over the music, taking the blonde’s hand—“I’m Echo!”

To this, the blonde smiles wide and tightens her grip on Echo’s hands. _Oh_ , she thinks to herself, realising that this might not work out too well for Roan. The girl leans forward and yells back, “Clarke!”

The two of them dance together until the next song starts, the pattern of lights changing overhead. Atmosphere and alcohol make fast friends of strangers, especially two girls who just want to have fun. Slowly but surely however, the two of them and Roan meet halfway.

Roan returns her drink to her, bidding his time. Echo takes a sip of it before holding it out towards her new friend and leans into the girl’s blonde mane to yell: “Adios Motherfucker! Want!?”

As if to prove it’s perfectly safe, Echo takes another sip, not missing the way Clarke’s eyes remain on Roan. Okay, so maybe Roan does have a chance. Time will tell, but nothing can happen without introductions. As Clarke sips the vivid blue drink, Echo leans in once more: “My brother… Roan… Don’t trust a word he says. You like?”

The widening of Clarke’s eyes and lingering of her gaze on Roan is all Echo needs to make the call. Chuckling, she leans forward and adds, “I meant the drink!”

Laughing, the blonde hands it back, yelling affirmatively.

“No, keep it! I’ll go get us another round!”—Echo reaches for Roan’s collar and yanks him forward— “Roan, this is Clarke!”

Perhaps it’s because his undivided attention is the antidote to having been ignored by her friends, but Clarke doesn’t seem too worried about switching dance partners. Still, it impresses both Echo and Roan when she knocks back the remainder of the drink in one fell swoop. Roan does the same. Plucking the empty cups from their hands with a roll of her eyes, Echo considers her job here done. It’s just as well, for after over an hour of dancing her body begins to make its needs known.

~*~

Moving towards the edge of the dancefloor, Echo continues to sway to the beat. The song that escorts her towards the bathroom has her arms lifting over her head and singing loudly. Somewhere on the dancefloor Ontari is doing the same. Had they still been dancing together the first few chords would have been drowned out by excited shrieking. Dua Lipa is, hands down, the shit. But even without her trusted partner in crime Echo doesn’t hold back, swinging her head and stepping to the beat. As she moves through people—dropping her arms to casually swim through the crowd, she flashes a smile at a handsome guy standing around at a table. A quick glance suggests that all of his friends are paired off with one another. Before returning her attention on her path, she gives him a knowing look. Some might say, an unspoken invitation.

The guy is perched against the wall when she steps out of the bathroom, fresh water from the faucets dripping down from her hair. They don’t exchange names as she crosses the corridor towards him to cheekily pluck his drink from his hand. Beer isn’t the most interesting of drinks, but beggars can’t be choosers. Watching him over the rim of the cup, she gulps the remainder of his beer. It’s a little too bland and warm for her taste, but the way his gaze dips to her throat entices her to keep going. Triumphant, she tosses the empty cup over her head without a care as to where it lands. He follows its trajectory with eyes but returns his attention to her immediately. Smiling, he gently cups her jaw and leans forward to lick the foam off her upper lip.

_Oh_ , she thinks to herself. He’s trouble.

Turns out Bellamy—as he introduces himself between kisses when they crash into the wall further down the corridor, away from the lines outside the bathroom—is more than trouble. He is something more and she has no idea what that means. All Echo knows is that she feels a dampness she didn’t before, and his mouth is entirely to blame for it. His mouth and his hands. Strong, calloused hands that skip across her hips and back as the two of them roll along the wall towards the darkest available corner.

When they crash into a trashcan, they part long enough to laugh. When they bump into others, they quickly regain their footing and restart as if uninterrupted. By the time Echo backs him into a corner, she’s lightheaded and weakening at the knees. It’s too dangerous, she realises. It’s like jumping out of a plane without a parachute: the initial free fall is invigorating, but the closer the ground gets the clearer it becomes. From the press of his hips she knows what awaits her if she lands, and Echo isn’t interested.

(In reality, she's afraid. She doesn't it know it though.)

Stepping back, she reluctantly relinquishes her iron grasp on the front of his shirt and takes a good look at him. The light is coming from behind her, which means she can disperse the shadows on his face by tilting her head. He’s the embodiment of tall, dark, and handsome, though there is a roundness to his cheeks and a smatter of colouring across his nose that softens the edge. His beard suits him, if a little unkempt for her taste, but she has no doubt he’d look equally inviting without it.

Bellamy paws at her hips, wanting her to step back into the space between his feet. Echo slides her hands over his forearms, noting the sinew and muscle. This combined with the line of his shoulders and the variety of smiles he’s flashed at her in the last ten minutes, tick too many boxes on her checklist. Best she get away now—while she still can. He’s magnetic. The dark eyes like blackholes threatening to swallow her whole.

Her smile is appreciative as she takes a long look at him—head to toe and back. Biting down on her swollen lower lip, she makes it count. Then, she pushes his hands off, her own digging firmly into his forearms. Echo steels her resolve as confusion plays across his face, and she has to disengage before that kicked puppy look tricks her. A wolf can’t hide beneath fleece once its fur’s been noted. Given the angles at which his hair is sticking out, she most certainly knows he’s a wolf.

“Thanks, Bellamy.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he calls out, pushing himself off both walls.

His hand wraps around her wrist—gentle but firm. Echo allows herself to be stopped and turns to face him, eyebrow arched. Bellamy offers no explanation other than his lips crashing against hers. With his opposite hand he cups her neck—fingers sinking through her sweat-matted hair—and deepens the kiss. It’s demanding and prying. His tongue slips a question onto hers which she finds herself replying enthusiastically.

~*~


	2. Sunday

_Sunday morning, I woke up fucked up, with you right next to me  
_ _Had a flight booked to Japan, but you took me by the hand_

~*~

The early morning’s drizzle has turned into a full-fledged storm by mid-morning. Raindrops pelt the windows, filling the room with the hollow sound of their reverberating metal frames. It’s an old industrial building turned living apartments and the late November chill seeps through the large windows. Echo rescues her exposed limbs from the cold air, tucking them under the mess of sheets and burrowing closer into the heat. A leg wraps around one hers, drawing hers in, and she’s too tired to realise that third leg is not her own.

Bellamy is the type to wake up with sunlight and Echo is thankful the weather is shit. Her head hurts enough with the added sensory assault. Muted grey light filters through the thin curtains, and she tentatively peeks towards them out her left eye. Last night’s mascara is clumping her lashes. Smacking her lips, she burrows into the pillow with a groan. Some rodent must have crawled into her mouth and died last night.

The need to empty her bladder and wash out her mouth prompt her to leave the comfortable warmth. Echo goes about her business and spends an added few minutes washing her face, getting as much of the dark makeup from under her eyes as she can without using soap. It’s too early to get that shit into her eyes. The tile is too cold beneath her bare feet, almost as cold as the floorboards between the bathroom and Bellamy’s bed.

When she huddles back between the sheets, he hisses at the chilly feet she sticks between his ankles. Half-asleep, he draws her to his chest, hands rubbing warmth into her skin. In doing so he wakes further, peering at her through dark lashes. By the looks of it he’s equally hungover, though that doesn’t stop him from making good on an unspoken promise to warm her up. As he kisses his way down his body, the chill in the air is welcome to cool the sweat pooling across her skin.

~*~

 _It’s all very_ , she thinks.

“—very Brooklyn,” she concludes out loud.

Drumming her nails against the ceramic mug, Echo glances towards him. The collar of his shirt is damp at the back from where his hair’s dripped water down his nape. Her gaze inches southbound, noting the way the cotton shirt hangs from his shoulders—broad and relaxed—and how pert his derriere looks in those dark grey sweatpants.

From where he stands by the stove, Bellamy casts a look over her shoulder at her.

“You got a problem with Brooklyn?”

Echo nods solemnly, a fond, tired smile stretching across her swollen lips despite herself.

Her attention is still on his backside when she replies.

“I find the food service is a little slow,”—she  pointedly drags her gaze up his body— “But the sights are worth the wait, and”—she pauses to take a sip of the expertly made latte—“the coffee’s good, so…”

Bellamy sets the pot on a cool burner and turns towards her. He leans on the countertop, and she notices beads of shower water just over his extended elbow. She reaches absentmindedly with her free hand, using her thumb to stroke them away. When she glances up, his face is inches away. His hair is damp, clumping into dark curls. He’s got dark circles under his eyes. His mouth is set into that subtle smirk that makes heat pool between her legs. In response, she hooks one foot around the stool’s metal leg and presses herself further into the oddly shaped seat.

“You’re welcome,” he tells her. It’s not what she expected, and for a moment she’s caught off guard. At the raise of her eyebrows, he leans forward, mouth hovering over hers as he adds, “But if you keep looking at me like that you can forget breakfast altogether.”

Bellamy seals his heatless threat with a soft kiss. Echo’s free hand returns to his elbow and traces the underside of his upper arm. Bruises the size of her fingers dust his skin just below the edge of his sleeve. When he deepens the kiss, she ghosts her hand over them and squeezes. It must remind him of how she clung to him earlier in the morning, because the sound he makes at the back of his throat suggests a hunger that won’t be satiated by the eggs burning on the stove.

“It’s burning,” she quips, breaking away. He tries to follow her mouth, and it takes a moment for him to snap out of it. Echo gives his arm a proper squeeze. He opens his eyes to look at her with a quizzical brow before realisation dawns on him.

Bellamy returns his attention to the stove and mutters a low, “Shit.”

He tries to salvage their breakfast, scraping the scrambled eggs from the pot’s edge. Echo sets her mug down on the countertop and steps around it. Her hand finds a home between his shoulder blades as she peers into the pot. Tracing the valley of his spine, she props her chin on his shoulder.

“If you have a charger, I have UberEats,” she tells him, glancing up through her lashes. At this, Bellamy glances down at her. His gaze flits about her face and lingers, the gears in his head visibly turning.

“No,” he replies, cutting the gas and relinquishing the wooden spatula. It’s a little too sudden, his movements too brusque, but before Echo can step away, he’s ensnared her into a hug. He squeezes her like a cobra would its prey, and her arms hang uselessly at her sides as she arches a brow at him.

“No?”

“No,” he repeats, this time lower. His gaze drops to her mouth and he swoops in to catch her lips. Echo wonders what he means. The truth is she’s hungry. Hungry and hungover and about twenty minutes away from needing a Snicker’s bar to tame the beast she’ll become. All of this dissipates when he licks into her mouth, wiping her brain like an etch-n-sketch. Her fingers curl around the hem of his shirt on either side of his hips for purchase as she tilts her head back to welcome the slick and insistent slide of his tongue.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, though her breathlessness barely dulls the edge of the warning. He presses his forehead to hers, stroking the length of her spine. Echo realises this is a moment to be indulged in and holds her tongue, if only for a moment. Her left-hand burrows under his t-shirt to trace lazy patterns over his skin. He too indulges in their proximity, sighing contentedly at her touch.

“I’m half-hard as is,” he whispers, the warning evident on his coffee-stained breath. Echo licks her lips, peering through her lashes at him. He’s looking at her—into her—and she too feels the heat pool the base of her spine. They’re teetering on the edge of something, and he’s giving her a head’s up. Her fingers still over his skin, stuttering his breath. If he’s disappointed, he doesn’t show it. What she witnesses instead is a man completely at her mercy. The realisation makes her feel drunk with power.

It’s bold of Bellamy to assume she has any more self-control than he does. Until last night she thought she did, but his proximity mutes her instincts and distorts honed habits. Even the hunger twisting her gut is no match for the flame he’s kindled deep in her belly. Sighing through fared nostrils, she bites down on her lips and glances down at his mouth. Which hunger does she feed?

The rational brain rattles a list of to-dos: finish coffee, get food, get dressed, go home, take an aspirin, rehydrate. The other—not entirely irrational—side doesn’t offer checklists or clear instructions. No, it fuels urges: the urge to card her fingers through his hair, the urge to bruise his mouth, the urge to let him bend her over this very countertop. There are so many urges and they distort the clear signals from her body. The last time she felt this kind of passion she was a hormonal teenager swapping spit with a boy under the bleachers.

“I want you and I want food,” she tells him. The urgent press of her lips to his and the devilish dip of her hands into the hem of his shorts clarifies the order in which she wants them. When she gives his butt a proper squeeze, Bellamy surges forward and drops every pretence of chivalry.

~*~

When they resurface an hour later from their impromptu nap with the smell of sex clinging to their skin, they’re faced with someone’s unbridled ire.

Turns out that Bellamy’s flatmate isn’t too hot on having his fancy copper cookware left to sit on a cool stove with burned milk and eggs hardening along its edges. Echo barely gets a proper introduction to John and John’s girlfriend what with Bellamy ushering her out the door and away from the tirade. The rain—which was a valid complaint on Echo’s behalf when Bellamy first suggested they eat lunch elsewhere—is far less daunting to face after that.

“Raven seems nice though,” she offers, cutting into Bellamy’s unnecessary apology as they take the stairs. He goes on to explain that the kitchen is usually not his domain and confesses that Raven can be just as bad as John—but with electronics and appliances. Echo laughs at his expense before teasing out of him what _he_ is just as bad about.

The answer? Books and bills.

The _nerd_ she utters accusingly at him as they reach the ground floor is drowned by his mouth.

Bellamy pins her to the wall at the bottom of the stairs, grip tight on her wrists. Echo stares straight at him when he breaks the kiss, the cold air between them rife with sexual tension. Instead of giving into it again, he presses his forehead to hers and sighs.

“I think you’re making it onto that list too, Echo.”

This doesn’t feel like being fifteen under the bleachers anymore. Suddenly there’s something else, something she hasn’t known before. It’s not bright and hot and wild like a forest fire. No. No, it’s hot and heavy and dense like lava. It doesn’t ravish and destroy. It burrows and warms inside-out. It’s unlike anything she’s known, and Echo doesn’t know what to say.

Instead of acknowledging the implication of his words, she fits her hand into his and knees his thigh in an attempt to push him away. If he keeps her caged like this, God knows what will happen. The loud twist of her stomach and thumping in her head offers an ugly answer. The rational brain pipes up again. _Too many layers_ , it adds spitefully.

“Come on, _nerd_. Food was promised.”

~*~

“Hey! That’s cheating!”

“And this is the world’s smallest violin,” Raven counters, leaning past her teammate to look at John. The sardonic smile she gets in turn draws a chuckle from her butter-stained lips, and she returns her attention to the screen.

“You want to go—no! No, don’t do—no go, do—Crouch!”—she hits Echo’s upper arm repeatedly, as if that’ll help—“Press X. Press X.”

Echo does as she’s told, but it’s too late. The crouch is more of a crumple and it’s not her doing. From the armchair, John cheers. Her half of the screen goes red as the word ‘HEADSHOT’ appears.

“Give me that,” Raven snaps, taking the controller out of her hand.

“You’re going down, Murphy.”

“Babe. Just accept it. You played the gender card and lost. You should have stuck with me.”

“I’m going to stick you with something alright.”

Raven’s fingers are dancing across the controller, and Echo glances towards Bellamy. Video games are strictly Roan’s domain, and while she was happy to indulge her new friends, it’s becoming clear this is some sort of foreplay for them. Extracting herself from the couch is easy enough, and she takes the popcorn as consolation prize. Until Bellamy emerges from writing that email he remembered (suddenly and loudly) at lunch, she will have to keep herself busy.

Her phone’s been charging since late morning—plugged in before they went out for lunch—and there’s a wall of notifications when she turns it on. Messages from Roan, Ontari, Gaia, Anya… Instagram mentions… A horrifying number of emails (most of them subscriptions she’ll have to wrangle her way out via a sequence of links no doubt)… and four missed calls from Cage Wallace.

At the last one, the warm fuzzy feeling she’s had all day vanishes.

It’s replaced by something jagged and cold.

Worrying her lower lip, Echo cycles through everything but her phone calls. Roan and Clarke (who is apparently a medical resident at Columbia) are only now parting ways, which makes her wonder if she’s overstayed her welcome at Bellamy’s. She and Roan exchange messages back and forth as she scrolls through Instagram and clears out mentions.

Ontari has posted a picture from their night out that’s already accrued plenty of likes. As opposed to her, Echo keeps her profile on private, and the tagged picture has led to an onslaught of follow requests and a few unwelcome DMs. She goes about clearing them out, ruthless in her quest to maintain her privacy while still participating in social media.

Other things, she’s not as meticulous about, and it’s as she begins to scroll through her emails that Bellamy sets his chin on her shoulder. He’s about to ask a question when he spies the number of unread messages.

“ _Jesus_ … I knew there had to be a catch.”

Echo glances at him out the corner of her eye, watching as he steps around her and leans back on the countertop. Her eyebrow arches at him questioningly, but her attention returns to the screen. All this slide and deleting is giving her a thumb cramp.

“You know there’s a way to select multiple ones and delete them all at once, yeah?”

Echo glances back up at him, still silent.

Bellamy considers her, looking a little uncertain. Whatever he’s thinking, he hides it well. He offers her a sheepish smile then. Echo wonders if this is the moment he’ll ask her to leave. Truth is, she’s never stayed long enough to be in this situation. She is usually gone long before the other person wakes. That was the plan last night anyway: have fun and return home. After her last relationship, that’s how she prefers to do things.

Now, she’s not so sure.

“How about we get dinner?”

“Sure. I’ll be in the city next week,” she replies impassively.

Glancing up at him as the transport app loads, she waits for his response.

“I meant tonight, but—What do you mean _in the city_?”

“I came up from Philly to visit my brother?” she reminds him.

Bellamy’s eyebrows rise—high—and his jaw slackens. Apparently, they haven’t managed to get that far into their acquaintance, which is odd considering she’s told him about practically everything else.

“I thought you were local,” he says. There’s something in his tone that’s hard to place. It’s disappointment or displeasure, the latter which may or may not be aimed at her. Echo doesn’t have it in her to ask what difference does that make? In fact, something tells her he’s changing his mind about dinner.

“I might be,” she offers with an uncertain smile. She was up here with Roan and Ontari looking at office spaces yesterday, after all. Azgeda Industries is expanding, and Nia won’t allow Roan to head the new project alone.

“Right,”—he breathes out, glancing towards Raven and John still playing Xbox—“I guess we can talk about it over dinner. You going home ton—”

“—Unless you want me to leave,” Echo interjects, setting her phone down on the table. Her throat feels thick. Home is just over an hour away, which isn’t that far considering how long travelling between states can take in other parts of the country. Then again, she might just return to Roan’s and head home in the morning.

“I should leave,” she reiterates when Bellamy says nothing.

Unplugging her phone, Echo steels herself against the disappointment roiling her insides. From the moment she woke up she felt at ease here, but the realisation that this isn’t where she belongs threatens to make her a little sick. _This is why you can’t have nice things_. Much like Nia and Roan’s relationship, she feels it’s just her luck of the draw to get only half of what everyone else gets.

“Wait,”—he grasps her wrist gently—“Let’s get dinner first, yeah?”

Echo swallows around the lump in her throat, cursing herself for feeling this way. Exhaling through her nose, she closes her eyes and collects herself. It’s like stepping off a rollercoaster, and when she opens her eyes to look at Bellamy, she senses he’s been along for the ride. Her mouth feels dry, so she nods.

Bellamy tugs on her wrist, and she steps between the v of his legs. She searches his face and he searches hers. His gaze dips to her mouth when she licks her lips, and Echo leans in for a kiss. When they break away, his hands are on her hips. She presses her forehead to his and reminds herself to breathe.

“I’ll head home after that then,” she whispers, opening her eyes.

“Or you could stay,” he offers, peering through his lashes.

Echo cups his cheek, and he tilts his head into it.

“Stay,” he repeats, closing his eyes.

“Just,”—he bumps his nose against hers and exhales— “Stay.”

He punctuates the request with a kiss—his lips say a lot more than _please_.


	3. Monday

_Now every morning I wake up with you right next to me_

~*~

Bellamy burrows into her hair. His breath is hot across her nape and his groan appreciative. The roll of his hips makes his intentions clear, but the universe has other plans for them this morning.

There’s a loud crashing sound that echoes throughout the apartment, followed by a string of Spanglish curses. It’s a matter of seconds before a second voice chimes in and the volume noticeably increases.

“You sure you don’t want to reconsider Monty and Harper’s offer?”

“I like Brooklyn,” Bellamy grumbles, unwavering in his decision.

“—And _I_ , like sleeping in on the weekend,” Echo counters, voice raspy.

“It’s Monday—”  
“—It’s Labour Day.”  
“Still a Monday,” he maintains.

At the lack of a retort—physical or verbal, Bellamy plants a kiss on the back of her head. He pulls her closer to him, as if trying to use her as a shield. It’s of little to no avail given the soundproofing of this place is shit.

Beyond the door an argument is in full swing. John has begun slamming things in order to drive home his points, and Echo duly notes breakfast is still happening then. (It can’t be that bad of an argument if John and Raven are still in the same room.) Soon enough the smell of pancakes and coffee will fill the apartment, as it always does—argument or not. If only they would just…

“QUIET MURPHY!” Echo shouts.

Bellamy’s chuckle is felt, not heard.

Their hushed bickering is acknowledgement enough. It is easier to ignore voices than the intermittent clanging of pots and banging of drawers. An angry John in the kitchen easily outperforms the percussion section of the New York Philharmonic. (Which is admittedly not saying much given its size, but the industrial backdrop of their shared apartment carries sound better than it would at Lincoln Centre. Echo is willing to bet on it.)

The television gets turned on, suggesting Raven’s had enough of John’s arguing. It’s a low but persistent drone. Echo makes a sound at the back of her throat and turns around to nuzzle Bellamy’s collarbone. In response, he pulls the lightweight quilt over both their heads and plants a kiss against her forehead.

~*~

Rousing from light sleep, Echo casts her mind to the rest of the apartment. The smell of pancakes and coffee is faint in the air, suggesting it’s much later than expected. _At least it’s quiet_ , she thinks to herself.

Bellamy tightens his grip on her body, pressing his thigh between her legs.

“Morning,” she slurs, tilting her head into the pillow as his mouth traces the underside of her jaw. His interest is noted, pressing against her stomach. Smiling—her eyes still closed—Echo reaches between them for it. “—and good morning to you too,” she adds, taking him in hand.

“What do you say”—he kisses her chin—“we give them”—he kisses her lower lip—“a taste”—he pulls her lower lip between his teeth and releases it—“of their— _oh_.” He sighs into her mouth in appreciation of her ministrations, instantly losing his train of thought.

Echo smiles against his open mouth.

“Bellamy?”

“Yeah?”

He’s breathing a little more heavily, jaw slack as he presses his nose to her cheek.

“Will you do something for me?”

“For you?”—he stumbles over the next vowel, all but whimpering—“Anything, baby. _Anything_.”

At her silence, Bellamy peers at her through his lashes. His pupils are stretched wide, his eyes like blackholes whose event horizon she’ll be circling for years. Echo looks at him with unbridled fondness. His skin is flushed. His hair’s rumpled from sleep. There are deep red marks across his cheek from the pleats in the pillowcase. Even without his beard—(shaved off for Monty’s wedding last week)—he’s still the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. The fact that she’s got him in the palm of her hand—quite literally at this point in time—fills her with unmitigated glee. For someone who’s been accustomed to halves, Bellamy truly is everything.

“Break up with her,” she pleads, tilting her head into the pillow so their noses will line up.

“What?”

Bellamy jolts back, confusion crowding his flushed face. Her hand does devilish things below the covers and instantly he relaxes into the pillow. His brow remains furrowed as his eyes—dark, soulful eyes—search her face.

“Break up with Brooklyn, for me,” she whispers.

“…or?”

Bellamy’s watching her carefully, the mindful breathing he’s attempting suggesting he’s ready to take this conversation seriously.

It’s wrong of her to take advantage of him like this, she knows. Truth is, her heart’s not entirely in it. Yes, she wants to move to Manhattan—to be closer to her brother, to be closer to her job, to share a living space with a married couple that doesn’t teeter on the edge of a breakup every bank holiday. There is something about Monty and Harper that make her yearn for changes in her own relationship. They’re so _settled_. They’re so _in love_. They’re so _certain_ about their future. Echo and Bellamy have that too but the repetitive nature of being woken up by their flatmates every weekend in a similar fashion just makes it feel... _less_.

Bellamy covers her hand with his and eases it off him. His concerned expression and fleeting pupils are those of a man drowning in silence. He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. His attention doesn’t stray from her face. The red on his cheeks is fading faster than it should, given his physical state.

“Echo, talk to me.”

There’s an edge to his voice, and undercurrent of panic.

They’ve had this conversation a few times, but never seriously.

It wasn’t meant to be serious this time either, but—

“Or,” she hesitates.

Bellamy presses her hand—unperturbed by the slickness of her palm—against his chest.

“Echo, I’m teetering on the edge of a heart attack here,” he admonishes.

In response, she peels her hand away and mirrors the movement, pressing his calloused fingers to her breastbone. He glances up from her chest—mind still fogged by arousal given the drag of his tongue along his lips.

“I don’t dislike Brooklyn,”—she struggles to enunciate—“I don’t like Manhattan more. I just want what it represents, to them. I want—”

“—you want to marry me?”

It comes off far too incredulous and casual. He’s not asking, and the widening of his eyes makes Echo realise the sudden flutter of her heart is out of place. Before she can clarify or find the right words to de-escalate this mess of a situation, Bellamy pulls away with a solemn expression.

Echo watches him sit up. He doesn’t get out of bed, though his feet are on the ground and his shoulders are tense. She feels the ground rushing towards her when he lets out a heavy sigh. The fast-approaching ground is caving; she doesn’t crash, just keeps falling. Her stomach lurches as she her breath catches in her throat. It’s the onset of a panic attack. Sitting up, she holds her breath—the counterintuitive but most helpful way to interrupt the hyperventilation.

~*~

“Echo, I—”

Bellamy turns around then, folding one leg onto the bed as he scoots up against the headboard. He does a double take when he looks over. It’s been seconds—if that—and the playing field has changed on him once more. She really does keep him on his toes.

Echo’s bowed forward with a hand on her abdomen and another around her throat. It’s frightful and familiar and telling. He’s seen her stave off panic attacks before and helped through many more. He pulls the sheet over his lap, suddenly self-conscious of his lingering arousal.

Unwilling to make matters worse, Bellamy simply reaches to stroke her back. He traces her spine—up and down, slow and steady.  He keeps his distance, knowing better than to crowd her. (Cage Wallace is to thank for Echo’s contradictory feelings about closed spaces and tight fits. It’s bitterly ironic that her former boyfriend’s name is _cage_ given his fondness of them. Echo’s foray into bondage is something that piques his interest, certainly, but he’s not willing to risk what they have by bringing it up. One day she’ll tell him more about it. Or not. He’s purposely left that ball in her playing field.)

“You need anything?”

His voice is quiet, attention never straying from her striking profile.

Echo shakes her head, staring down at her hands.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Don’t.”

Bellamy feels something seize in his chest when she looks at him. How many times has she been denied the opportunity to apologise? How many times has Nia expected her to simply fix it, without offering any reassurance? Even Roan’s tongue is a little too sharp for Bellamy’s taste at times.

“Don’t take it back,” he amends, voice softer.

He glances down at his hands then, toying with the box between his fingers. He hears Echo’s sharp inhale but doesn’t look up, scared to see her expression. Should he be doing this? Does she think this is a mistake? No. No, Echo was going backtrack in an attempt to undo damage, but there’s been no damage done. Well, only some, but that’s not entirely her fault. No, the cat’s out of the bag now and it’s not going back in. It can’t, not after all this time.

“I was going to wait until November,”—he doesn’t waver—“For our two-year anniversary. I bought it around the same time Monty bought Harper’s”—which places the purchase thirteen months ago—“I guess if you want to marry me now though, I’m cool with that.”

He hazards a glance towards her and adds, “What do you say?”

~*~

Nothing. There is nothing for her to say. Her stomach’s is in her throat and her heart is vaulting from one rib to the next. The dizziness in her head could be the after-effect of panic attacks or a side-effect of delirium.

“I…”

~*~

“You want to see it? Is that it? Can’t make a call until you’ve snapped it and gotten an opinion from the girls in the group chat?”

It’s meant to alleviate the tension he feels building in the pit of his stomach. His teasing smile is strained.

“I’m not your sister, Bellamy.”

“No,”—he feels his laugh catch in his throat and the tears welling—“That’d be…”—he tries to swallow around the surge of emotion—“That’s just so not the right comment to make right now, Echo.”

Bellamy glances down as he pops open the velvet box, and then holds it out towards her. He doesn’t look up, wiping at the corner of his eyes and laughing. He must be having a nervous breakdown. The heart attack he warned her about feels like it’s in full swing. He knows it’s his left arm that should feel numb were that the case, but his right arm is struggling with the weight of the ring he’s holding out to her. Even after she takes the box, he feels it’s weight in his empty palm.

At the sound of the box snapping closed his head snaps up.

(It’s a sound he knows too well from having nervously opened and closed it a million times in the past many, many months. It all seems worth it though when he finds her studying the ring on her finger.

He’ll kick himself later for not sticking to original plan and putting it on himself.)

Rose gold and pearl. _Understated but beautiful and so appropriate_ had been Harper’s words.

“You like it,” he concludes, his voice unsteady.

“I do,” she replies, seeking out his hand.

Bellamy can’t help but feel immensely proud of how good it looks against her tanned skin. Her choice of words borders on triggering. His laughter is punctuated with a sob as he squeezes her hand, unable to find his words. He watches their fingers intertwine, but feels himself hovering somewhere near the ceiling. There’s too much flowing through his body for him to fit in it, and he’s itching to spring into action.

“Echo…”

He doesn’t know what he intends to say, instead repeating her name, over and over again as he fiddles with her fingers.

 _Wife_ , a voice in his head corrects.

~*~

“Echo, echo, echo…”

“That’s the gist of it, yes,” she says, watching him cautiously.

Bellamy reminds her of both a deflating balloon and one that’s about to pop. If asked _how_ , she’d claim the signs are unobservable. She knows how he feels because it’s what _she_ feels. They toy with each other’s hand, and she tries to think of ways to fill the silence.

There are no words, and even if there were, she’s still reeling from the curveball he’s thrown. Even if she could verbalise all of… _this_ , she wouldn’t trust herself to do it right. He’s the one with extensive vocabulary. He’s the one who knows what the right things to say are. As he just pointed out, her choice of words leaves a lot to be desired. Yet, though the things that roll off her tongue are often ill-timed or poorly phrased, her mouth can do many other things he’s never complained about.

“Are you okay, Bellamy?”

Bellamy snorts. He leans back into the headboard and closes his eyes. Despite his lopsided smirk and visible relief, he looks unbelievably vulnerable. Echo manoeuvres herself onto her knees and closes the distance between them. She drags her fingertips over the stubble on his cheeks and cups his face, guiding his mouth towards hers as she leans in. Words are overrated, she thinks, finding it easier to convey what she feels by deepening an initially chaste and tender kiss.

I love you. I want you.

_Only you._

**Forever.**

**_Wherever._ **


End file.
